


what you give is always what you need

by kageygirl



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash, Slice of Life, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Touch-Starved Jaskier | Dandelion, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:11:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26380147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kageygirl/pseuds/kageygirl
Summary: At first, he thinks Jaskier is simply ignoring his admonishment not to touch Roach to be defiant.  After all, he'd once snapped, "Must you stir shit everywhere you go?" at the young bard, and, without any shame whatsoever, Jaskier had responded, "Not sure.  I've never really tried not to."And fuck ifthatdidn't describe the idiot in a nutshell.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 77
Kudos: 1192





	what you give is always what you need

**Author's Note:**

  * For [winnerstick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/winnerstick/gifts).



> Based primarily on the Netflix show/map/timeline, with a fair amount of pillaging of various wikis, fandom osmosis, and liberties wildly taken.
> 
> Title is from "Lay Your Hands On Me" by Bon Jovi, because I'm classy like that.

At first, he thinks Jaskier is simply ignoring his admonishment not to touch Roach to be defiant. After all, he'd once snapped, "Must you stir shit everywhere you go?" at the young bard, and, without any shame whatsoever, Jaskier had responded, "Not sure. I've never really tried not to."

And fuck if _that_ didn't describe the idiot in a nutshell.

But then he comes back from a hunt much earlier than he'd expected -- the "haunted ruins" have long since been abandoned, and he'll need to press the alderman for more details tomorrow -- and pauses, still under the cover of trees, because a camp containing the bard is rarely ever so suspiciously quiet. Particularly given how talkative said bard had been before he'd left.

He stalks silently closer until he finds an opportune vantage point, and nearly gives himself away with an audible growl, because the bard is _bothering his horse again_.

Except… he isn't.

Her coat shines glossy in the firelight, and her mane and tail are brushed smooth and free of tangles -- chores Geralt had regretfully decided to put off until morning, in the hopes of finding the local monster while the moon was high. Jaskier, in shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, has his arms looped loosely around Roach's neck, his head resting near one strong shoulder.

It's such an unexpectedly peaceful scene that Geralt can't find the will to disturb it.

Jaskier raises his head eventually, stroking her neck with his hand. "Thank you, dear lady. I needed that."

She raises her head, too, gently flicking her ear at him, and Jaskier's smile gleams in the dim light. 

When Jaskier moves, stepping back to the fire, Geralt does the same, circling wide around the campsite. He approaches from the same direction he left, deliberately making noise as he does so.

Jaskier stands from where he's been crouched, feeding twigs into the flames, his eyebrows raised as he spots Geralt. "No luck, or a very one-sided fight?"

"The first one," he rumbles, and Jaskier nods in sympathy. 

"Perhaps it heard there was a mighty witcher nearby, and departed for less dangerous climes," he murmurs. Under the cover of darkness, Geralt pays close attention, but can sense nothing but gentle good humor in Jaskier's voice.

He seems… calmer than he had before Geralt left. Less twitchy. More content to let a silence lie unmolested. 

"Let's hope it hasn't, or my coin will have gone with it," he replies, and Jaskier just chuckles, shaking his head, before beginning to settle down for the night.

* * *

He takes it upon himself to study the bard's moods after that, as he would any strange creature he needed to deal with (and never let it be said that the bard wasn't one of the stranger creatures he's encountered). Purely out of self-interest, of course; Jaskier's louder when he's agitated, after all, and Geralt values his peace and quiet. It's better if he knows the easiest way to bring that about.

His observations don't require any great effort; in fact, he hadn't realized how much energy he'd been putting into ignoring Jaskier's moods and quirks, until he decides to pay them attention, instead.

Any town that's not overtly hostile to the pair of them seems to keep Jaskier in good humor, whether he finds someone (or several someones) to divert himself with, or simply flirts outrageously with the willing souls that cross his path.

It's when they're out in the wilds for too long that Jaskier starts to fidget, his chatter flitting from topic to topic with an edge of desperation, his composing less productive and more likely to end in frustrated sighs. 

After devoting far too much thought to the issue, Geralt thinks he's figuring something out. On a day when they've been traveling along an old, disused mining road, and the bard has been bouncing between oddly withdrawn and voicing every thought that comes anywhere near his head, Geralt decides to test his theory. 

"Make yourself useful," he growls, tossing Roach's bundle of grooming supplies down at the bard's feet, and stalking off into the brush to obtain dinner.

When he returns, Jaskier is humming softly to himself as he scribbles in a notebook, Roach has been brushed and combed and is happily stripping a bush of its leaves, and the miasma of loneliness that had choked their little clearing earlier has dissipated completely.

* * *

It's probably good that Jaskier develops a relationship with Roach -- it wouldn't do for Roach to refuse to cooperate if Geralt needs to send them out of danger together, and if he gets himself killed, she'll have someone to look after her. (And the bard will have someone to look after him; he's clearly more in need of supervision than she is.)

So he can't really begrudge the carrots or the celery that Jaskier picks up from market stalls, more often than not simply charming a misshapen piece from the merchant without dropping a single coin. He endures the sugar lumps that Jaskier smuggles away from courts and noble houses, though he mutters, "Not too many," when the bard brings them forth.

But he's somehow unprepared for the evening when Roach begins nudging Jaskier with her nose as soon as he comes close, or the soft laughter that follows. "All right, you great beast, give me a moment," floats back to him, tone gentle as the breeze, and a sweet, tart scent reaches him just as he hears the first meaty crunch.

He decides that he needs a different whetstone, and crosses over to his pack. As he passes behind the bard on his return, he says, "You never bring _me_ apples," without any real purpose behind it. Perhaps just to provoke a reaction; for some reason, he's not in the mood for silence this evening.

"Ah, but you didn't have to endure a bit of a ramble the other night," Jaskier says, glancing over his shoulder at Geralt. "A lady's patience should be shown proper gratitude."

He grunts. He'd had to endure a mutant boar that had been threatening local woodcutters, instead. At the time, he'd been glad of a peaceful night, Jaskier leaving him be while the potions wore off, but he now finds himself… curious, about what he missed.

He drops his gaze back to the dagger he hasn't actually begun to inspect yet, but before he sets to work, he hears Jaskier coming closer.

And a thick apple wedge appears before him, offered up on Jaskier's paring knife. 

"You're right, of course, one shouldn't neglect the forbearance of a witcher, either," Jaskier says, and when Geralt twists to look up at him, he gives Geralt a small, rueful smile.

That smile grows bigger when he takes the offering and crunches into the apple wedge much like Roach did.

"Would you also like me to brush out your unruly mane, Geralt?" Jaskier says, batting his eyelashes at him, and Geralt huffs, turning away again.

Jaskier's laughter trails back over to Roach, where it's joined by the renewed sounds of fruit being eagerly reduced to pulp.

* * *

Later, after Jaskier has bid him goodnight and slipped easily into sleep, Geralt finds himself staring down at his own hands, watching the tendons shift as he flexes his fist.

Jaskier has called him a creature of habit -- without malice, but not without reason. Decades of learning how best to avoid human aggression have molded his responses so relentlessly that it's an effort to recall any other way to be.

Humans rarely wish to speak with him, particularly when they hear the rasp of his voice, so he curbs his speech. They don't like the sight of him, so he keeps to the corners of rooms and the edges of crowds. They fear the violence in his hands, and shrink from the thought of his touch, so he keeps his gloves on and his hands to himself.

He's been careful, all this time, to stay out of Jaskier's space, to avoid touching him, if at all possible. The bard seems unusually tolerant for a human, at least so far; seeing those blue eyes turn cold with repugnance is not a blow he wishes to weather.

But Jaskier questions him constantly, all but begs him to speak more. Jaskier seeks him out, his eyes lighting up when they land on him.

Perhaps Geralt has been mistaken in this assumption about him, as well. The thought that he's been doing Jaskier a disservice -- that he's contributed to the bard's melancholy, in some way -- is surprisingly disquieting.

* * *

He starts small. One night, he passes Jaskier a leaf-wrapped packet of dried rabbit, splayed across his palm; the bard can pluck it from Geralt's hand without touching him, if he so chooses, with just a bit of effort.

Effort that isn't employed; Geralt can feel the phantom brush of Jaskier's fingers lingering long after they're gone.

Another night, he skewers a brace of squab, cooking them over the fire; he holds one of the skewers out to Jaskier, and it's taken carelessly, lute calluses brushing across Geralt's fingers.

On a hot day, they find a stream through a narrow break in the brush, and the bard all but dunks himself into it headfirst. Geralt nudges him aside with his hip to make room, and Jaskier merely scoffs before bumping him back with one deceptively broad shoulder.

Small acts, but enough. The bard may seem to be naught but an idler and a romantic, and while he can be both, he's also a keen observer of human behavior when it suits him. Were he not, he'd end up with far fewer invitations to strange bedchambers (or barns, stables, storerooms, seemingly anywhere a modicum of privacy might be found) -- and in the middle of far fewer bar fights, as well. Jaskier picks up on the change in Geralt, the way he holds himself less carefully around the bard, is less wary about sharing space with him, sets his gloves aside more readily.

After that, it becomes commonplace for Jaskier to set a hand on his shoulder when reaching past him, or rest his thigh against Geralt's when they share a bench in a tavern. It's… less disconcerting than it might be. 

He's always devoted a portion of his attention to keeping track of Jaskier's movements -- partly to keep from any unwanted contact, and partly in case the bard finds himself in trouble his silver tongue can't extricate him from. He's no longer guarding himself against an ill-considered movement, but he finds his notice drawn to Jaskier still. It's… not so bad, being near him. He'd sooner face a bruxa naked and unarmed than admit it, but sometimes he finds himself preferring the bard's company to his absence. 

The bard will often return to their shared room after playing the night away, tipsy and warm and flushed; he used to curl into himself, humming under his breath and plucking at the bedclothes, with his back to Geralt and an ocean of empty mattress between them. 

Now, he faces Geralt, drowsily recounting the highs and lows of his performance until he falls asleep; now, he always ends up with his forehead pressed to Geralt's shoulder, or the backs of his fingers tucked against Geralt's arm.

Geralt could roll away himself, leave some space between them, but he never does; it's the best sleep he has, out on the Path. Jaskier's closeness keeps his demons away, as if even they are reluctant to disturb the bard's rest.

* * *

Avoiding the public room, he squelches up the back staircase of the inn; he's had enough of being shrieked at and pelted with debris for one day.

He's expecting the tub sitting in front of the fireplace, having ordered it before heading out for the hunt. He hadn't bothered to ask for warm water, knowing it would cool before he returned.

He is _not_ expecting the bard lounging on the bed, his head bent over a sheaf of paper in one hand, with a quill in the other and an inkwell nested somewhat precariously in the bedclothes. There's definitely some kind of music happening downstairs; he can hear the raucous crowd from here.

"You're not playing?" he asks, somewhat stupidly. He's tired, filthy, soaked, and cold, and he'd been resigned to a night of cleaning and patching up his armor and himself. He still needs to do both, but... 

Jaskier's in his shirtsleeves, bare feet crossed at the ankles, and the room feels far more inviting than when he'd left it empty earlier. In the glow of the candle at his elbow, Jaskier is all soft warmth, and Geralt has to fight down the urge to reach for him.

To keep his hands out of trouble, he starts stripping off his sodden armor, dropping it where he stands to avoid tracking swamp muck any further into the room.

"Apparently I'm not the only musician in town. Some asshole with a zither beat me to it." Jaskier doesn't look up at him, instead making a note on one of the pages, quill scratching over the paper. "A _zither_ , Geralt, honestly." 

One of his buckles is jammed with either a clump of moss or a scrap of mire-dwelling-creature hide, and he's not inclined to examine it too closely. "Isn't that just something like a flat lute?"

Judging by the sharp intake of breath, that was the wrong thing to say. Jaskier's head whips up, color in his cheeks, his mouth a perfect "O" of indignation. "How dare -- ! That is just so, so..." He never gets to find out what that _so is_ , because Jaskier stops abruptly, staring up at him. "... Wow. You look like you got dragged backwards through a swamp. What happened?"

Something slides free from his hair, dropping into the mess at his feet with a wet plop. "Got dragged backwards through a swamp."

Jaskier blinks at him, shaking his head abruptly, as if he had briefly forgotten how to do so. "Ah, well. On the one hand, that seems deeply unpleasant and you have my sympathies, but on the other hand, well spotted, me."

"Hmm."

He _did_ try to scrape as much of the bog off himself as he could, though it's hard to tell from the pile of filth surrounding him. He finally frees himself from his sopping clothes and decides that he needs to clean himself off before tackling his gear, or he'll befoul the whole room in the meantime.

A blast of Igni sets the tub steaming, and he settles himself in with a grunt, closing his eyes as the heat begins to seep into his body. It stings the cuts and scrapes he's accumulated tonight, but in his experience, few pleasures are obtained without a measure of pain.

He hears Jaskier slip off the bed, pad across the floor, and then stop at the foot of the tub. Curiosity wins out over lethargy, but he opens his eyes slowly, lest he seem too willing.

Jaskier has one elbow propped on the end of the tub, his jaw cradled in his palm in a way that makes him look particularly pouty, and he's staring directly at Geralt. "I'm sure you've noticed the extraordinary restraint I've been practicing." 

He snorts, to cover a laugh. Up close, the damn bard is even more disarming, and he hasn't even _done_ anything in particular. Perhaps Geralt hit his head on a rock while he was underwater. 

"Ordinarily, I'd be demanding details by now, but tonight I'll make you a deal." He holds up his other hand, with the cake of soap that Geralt had forgotten to fetch before getting into the tub. "Promise to tell me the story once you're clean, and I'll hand it over."

It must have been a very large rock, because Jaskier's mercenary turn is oddly charming. "Surprised you're willing to wait."

"Usually I wouldn't, but you look unspeakably bedraggled." He waves the soap in Geralt's direction. "It doesn't quite set the mood for a triumphant tale of danger and derring-do."

He tilts his head to one side as he stares back at the bard. Flatly, he says, "I'll make sure the next swamp hag leaves me in a condition more to your liking."

"I'd appreciate that, Geralt."

Geralt makes a "give it here" gesture with his fingers, and Jaskier presses the cake of soap into his palm. The steam from the water has pinked up Jaskier's cheeks, and dampened his fringe of hair into points, and it's something of a relief when he stands up, because looking at him is making Geralt's belly go hollow.

His relief is short-lived, however, because Jaskier comes back to sit behind him, a stool scraping woodenly over the floor and the hollow clink of a bottle being set down telegraphing his movements. 

There's a tug at the tie in his hair, and Geralt twists to look back at him.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

"Sit up a bit," Jaskier says, patting Geralt on both shoulders. Geralt glares at him, and Jaskier meets it with a smirk. "I'd have thought it was fairly obvious. What do _you_ think I'm doing?"

"Risking death by drowning."

"How very savage you are, Witcher," Jaskier drawls, sounding bored. "Witness how I'm trembling in my trousers."

He continues glaring at Jaskier, who merely looks unimpressed.

Then his face turns soft, and solemn. "Your hair is a mess, Geralt," he murmurs. His hands are resting on the lip of the tub, and when they flex, his fingertips trail through the water. "Let me take care of it for you."

It's on the tip of his tongue to refuse, without any real reason for it. It _would_ be easier for Jaskier to handle whatever mess is lodged in his hair, and he is well and truly sick of having the stink of rotten moss and decay in his nose.

There are tiny ripples in the water, edging away from Jaskier's fingers, and somehow that decides it for him.

With a grunt, he faces forward again, levering himself a little higher out of the water, and Jaskier gives one of his shoulders a quick squeeze.

Once his hair has been freed from the tie, there's hardly any more pulling; it feels like Jaskier is gathering a measure of hair in one hand, picking out the detritus with the other, then repeating that with the next handful, with far more patience than Geralt himself can ever muster. It's unsettling, to receive such care without a transaction having been negotiated.

He takes to soaping himself up, to distract himself from the mix of contentment and unease at war inside him.

At some point, Jaskier moves to combing his fingers through Geralt's hair, smooth nails and callused fingertips trailing along his scalp, dislodging smaller bits of bracken and mud. "Are you sure you left any of the swamp _in_ the swamp?" Jaskier asks wryly.

"Why don't I take you back there and let you see for yourself." He smirks, bringing to mind one of Jaskier's favorite words. "I know how you prize verisimilitude." 

Not that he incorporates it into his songs.

"That's quite all right," Jaskier says too quickly, belying his breezy tone. "I'm sure your account will be evocative and eloquent."

Which in no way resembles what Jaskier tends to say about his description of a hunt. "I could bring the head up here, if you'd like to take a look," he says, shifting as if to stand, and Jaskier shoves his shoulder, not all that hard. 

"Don't you dare, Witcher," he says, laughter in his voice. "We just got you clean, and the room's dirty enough already, but I wouldn't put it past you just to prove a point, you contrary bastard."

"Your loss," he rumbles, smiling himself, and he doesn't even object when Jaskier dumps a bucket of water over his head.

Sparring with the bard is a much more familiar indulgence, and he breathes out, letting himself relax a little. He hears Jaskier unstopper the glass bottle, and he touches Geralt's arm briefly before holding the bottle out in front of him. "Is this all right?"

The oil has a light, herbal smell -- he can't be sure what, exactly, over the lingering bog stink, but the fact that he _can't_ smell it over the bog stink means it's not too strong; it's not making him sneeze, either, so he nods.

Jaskier starts working the oil through his hair, rubbing fleetingly at his scalp before trailing down and away, over and over again. It's a little like meditation, and nothing at all like meditation, and his eyes slip closed while he's trying to decide what it means that he's not sure whether he wants it to stop.

Jaskier's fingers slow, at some point, some of their surety ebbing away. "This _is_ all right, isn't it, Geralt?" he asks, his voice quiet, and Geralt knows he's not talking about the scent of the oil. "You'd tell me if it weren't?"

The idea of raising a protest against how someone treats him, instead of just leaving, is so unfamiliar, so alien, that it might not have occurred to him to do so. But this is Jaskier, and he values words, not just actions. Geralt has seen him spend hours pondering an adjective, and exult when he finds the right one; he knows that while Jaskier enjoys being flowery and poetic, he also prizes the clarity of plain speech.

There's little enough comfort to be found in this world, and all this costs is a moment of honesty. Surely he can spare this.

"I'd tell you." His voice comes out low, and thick, and he swallows before continuing. "If it weren't."

There's stillness behind him, and then a breath is released across his shoulder, cooling the dampness on his skin. "Good, yeah, good," Jaskier says, his voice low, and then he's standing, grabbing a towel from the stack to wipe his hands.

Before he can get too far away, Geralt catches his wrist, the water in the tub sloshing at the sudden movement. Jaskier stares down at him with wide eyes.

"You should tell me, too," he says. Jaskier's pulse is strong and quick, and he has a fleeting urge to stroke his thumb over the soft skin there. "If you're not all right."

"Should I?" Jaskier doesn't look away. Geralt nods, and he breaks into a grin -- a genuine one, not one of his stage expressions, but delighted and shy and a little bit wondering. "Then I shall."

It takes too long for Geralt to remember that he should turn him loose; when he does, he looks away to grab another towel, step out of the tub, and dry himself off. 

He can feel the bard's eyes on him, but he doesn't look back until he has dressed and fetched a rag to begin dealing with his gear. He pulls the same stool Jaskier had used over to the pile of armor and clothing, and finally meets his eyes again.

Jaskier has re-ensconced himself on the bed, with his notebook in his lap, and the inkwell once again threatening the sheets. "Now, tell me _all_ about the swamp hag," he says, with an air somewhere between an overeager student and a merchant tallying up his accounts, and Geralt shakes his head.

He obliges him, nevertheless.

Later, when his gear is drying out, as clean as he can manage to make it, Geralt finally tips himself into bed, burying his face in the pillow to ward off the lamplight. Jaskier is still scribbling away beside him, the scratching of the quill almost hypnotic, keeping him suspended somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. 

But then there are fingers trailing gently through his hair, urging him to let go, and he lets them coax him away from the cares of the world.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [kageygirl](http://kageygirl.tumblr.com) on tumblr, hit me up to yell about these idiots and their idiot feelings


End file.
